Rising Abruptly (9 page)

A little of Sab's simple logic helps me not to sweat it. If nothing has happened, you've worried needlessly, all the while putting your body chemistry out of whack. If something has happened, no matter how high your level of anxiety, it has no power to undo the event. There you have it. And so, I'm cooling my heels at higher altitude until Sab's return. At least here, I'm breathing for the first time in days. Then what? I bas back down to that insufferable jungle? Would be so much better if she came up to my version of the Borneo paradise. As tropical rain falls in the shadow of the mountain, we would yak up a storm about the wild old days, about her wild current days.

At The Canteen, from an eclectic and reasonably priced menu, I select a snack of chicken satay with a cucumber salad. Judging from the snippets of conversation I can understand, most visitors are here to climb the mountain. At the next table, five amiable Brits engage me in the usual conversation. As soon as I open my mouth, they peg me as German. Switch their demeanour to offhand.

German? Hell no. Why German?

Your accent.

It's French. I'm from Québec. Now a resident of Calgary. Western Canada.

They look as if they have committed a diplomatic blunder.

Don't worry, it happens a lot. I can't figure out why. Say, is it really cold at the top?

They laugh, friendly again: There's a true Canadian. Chasing blizzards in the tropics, eh?

At another table, a lone pasty-white man in his sixties. Australian, judging from his accent. What do I know? He may very well be an Icelander forever mistaken for an Aussie. Brandishing an arsenal of anecdotes involving chopsticks, he is showing his prowess to youngsters from Singapore. Mistaking my stare for an invitation, he makes a beeline for me just as I get up to leave. To avoid embarrassment, he strides in a wide semi-circle, pretending to aim for the other direction, and shouts a bright see-you-later-mates to the young Chinese men who, wasting no time, resume slurping their noodles, their chopsticks flying at lightning speed.

To educate myself, I take in a slide show on the history, geology, flora and fauna of Mount Kinabalu and the surrounding region, hosted by Dr. Chu, the head naturalist. That way, when Sabourin and I manage to connect before my time on the island expires, I won't sound a complete nincompoop. Sab was the studious one, the brilliant one who investigated every source and every lead. No detail was too picayune to neglect. Moi, on the other hand, learned vicariously through her bottomless curiosity and her ability to process information quickly and correctly. Sab, the science A student with a major in chemistry, while I muddled through general studies, skipping classes in favour of playing my guitar and practising other people's songs. When she left Montréal to pursue post-graduate studies across the Atlantic in natural products chemistry, I was pretty miserable. I don't think I ever told her. On account of pride. The male's necessary aloofness. Nevertheless, her dedication to investigate plants at the molecular level impressed me so very much. Which didn't stop little moi from turning into a dilettante macroscoping his way through a collection of undistinguished occupations to earn a living. Did I disappoint her?

Dr. Chu raising her voice in annoyance yanks me out of my distraction. I missed several slides. She gets outraged, clicking through a series of shots illustrating the blatant exploitation of the resources of Borneo, particularly the destruction of the jungle, one of the oldest habitats of the world, home for millennia to a diverse people and to countless plants and animals. Dr. Chu's attitude is Sab's in the flesh. How many discussions of that nature have we had? Pursued through our uninterrupted correspondence over the years. I long for us to pick up the thread.

To the audience's astonishment, Dr. Chu shows spectacular slides of various species of
Nepenthes
, the famous carnivorous pitcher plants. A man in the front row pipes in about a
Nepenthes rajah
found in the nineteenth century by an English botanist who reported that it was thirty centimetres in diameter and contained two and a half litres of water and a drowned rat. The audience laughs and I recognize Mr. Australia showing off. Dr. Chu ties up her broken thread to present several slides of another star of the Malaysian jungle, the
Rafflesia
. A parasitic plant with no roots of its own that produces the largest flower on the planet. The Australian feels obliged to point out that when past its prime the flower smells like rotting flesh.

Dr. Chu instructs us that the smell of decay plays a direct role in the plant's reproduction, as it attracts flies and carrion beetles that carry the pollen from male to female flowers. My durian comes to mind. Should have asked the vendor how close to maturity it was before purchasing it. Dr. Chu pinches her lips before pointing out the paradox that Borneo has a large jungle forest industry, and yet, must import chopsticks. Pasty-white know-it-all is on a roll, now engaging the naturalist in his favourite topic. She indulges him, until the exchange turns to babble, then without pity, in Sab's style, she cuts him off to conclude the slide show. He rushes out of the room, announcing sudden urgent business.

Without pause, possibly to prevent the rest of the audience from streaming out, Dr. Chu begins a video about Mount Kinabalu itself, pointing out the unique flora that have captivated botanists since the nineteenth century. Today, scientists continue to gather plants on the slopes of the mountain and to discover new natural products. A challenging climb, judging from the rock formations. As long as I shiver, my goal will have been attained. Although, in walking steadily uphill, and, according to the video, on Gunung Kinabalu the uphill goes on a long way, you work up a sweat. I'm willing to take my pahit medicine to touch the cold.

And here she is! Sab's face appearing through the foliage. Sab holding a plant by the stem as by the neck, its root system dangling in mid-air. Sab, tall and grinning among her fellow plant hunters. And, unless this is a trick of light, not even sweating. As the video ends and Sab vanishes before my eyes, I jump to my feet.

When was this shot? I must know. Last year? This morning? I must know.

Half of the audience laughs; the other half gathers its belongings, ready to flee the madman. Dr. Chu reaches for a paging device to call security, the army, the death squad. They'll cart me away to the jungle loony bin where I'll sweat, forever sweat, in the realm of relentless humidity. Better beat a discreet retreat. Go lounge about at the cabin. Get into the proper tropical mode of zero exertion. Or should I go ahead and climb Gunung K.? And run into Sab? During my fantasizing earlier, my instincts must have told me she was nearby. In the video, tall Sab is still wearing her hair too short. It accentuates her awkward features.

Outside, as I'm weighing my options, the Australian catches up with me.

G'day, mate. You here to climb?

Haven't decided yet. You?

We gave this hill a burl more than once, the missus and me. Made it to the top too. Went everywhere with the missus. Those were the days. Nowadays, the old legs are a bit rooted. I better take it easy on shorter hikes. I can show you…

I may never return here. Might as well go for the top. Sorry.

No worries, mate. I'll give you a blow-by-blow description of what to expect. Care to join me for a pint or two?

Better turn in early.

And I leave him standing in the rain. What a cad I am. The man drips with loneliness. He mentioned a missus. His dear departed? Could be a case of divorce. Either way, poor sod. What would be the harm in keeping him company for an hour? In the best tradition of mateship, two lone males in the jungle, swapping lies. As I'm reconsidering, it stops raining, and, he's gone.

Late afternoon, daylight dimming and a thick fog obscures hills and mountains. With nightfall begins the jungle symphony of birds and insects and mammals. I take a long shower. Go sit on the veranda. Watch the mist disperse.

Gazing at the equatorial sky, I recall something Sab once wrote to me about the physical world and why she thrives on the difficult questions that it poses. No one can put a spin on physical laws. They won't bend for anyone's convenience or agenda. With that in mind, I eat the intoxicatingly scented pineapple, letting the sweet-tart, sticky juice run down my chin and along my arm, feeding on one of nature's marvels. And how I marvel, this night, at the games we used to play without ever becoming a couple. And here I am, this night, perspiring with complicated pleasure. We were wise without knowing it. The sagacity of our youth preserved an enduring friendship.

Truthfully, I could not begin to imagine Sab as the missus. How about celebrating our wisdom with the durian? Is splitting the fruit open a forbidden act in a national park? Is this act also subject to the death penalty? I struggle to cut the shell open with my inadequate penknife. One needs a machete or tiger's fangs to get at the flesh. At the market, the vendor instructed me to discard the fleshy interior. You eat the heavy fibrous coating enveloping the several large seeds. I only managed to puncture the shell. If I keep at it, I risk impaling my wrist on the stiff stubby spikes that cover the devilish fruit. Better concentrate on the constellations.

I slept, aware of tossing and turning. Skeins of dreams remain about Sab and giant flowers, and the stink of sewers in my nose. This morning, I sniff the durian. So far, it is keeping its fetid self within its stubborn skin. All the same, to prevent olfactory catastrophe, I cover the knife cut with a Band-Aid. Not to be overlooked, the leftover pineapple scents the room shamelessly and the ants have found the bounty. I toss the fruit and its parasites into the trash can.

My joints feel stiff, as in a prelude to the flu. Merde! Not malaria. Those biting
Anopheles
on Sab's veranda. Merci beaucoup, chère amie! She lured me to the sick country, only to elude me. What madness, what sick game? Not like Sab, that! Overdosing on chloroquine won't repair damage already done.

Okay. I'm taking a deep breath. Must see the logic of the situation instead of imagining the worst without reason. I am waffling. Should I rest or would hiking to high altitude help to shake off whatever bug is exploring my system? It is still muggy, but the temperature is so much more bearable than at sea level. If I stay down, the Australian will want to buddy up with me. If I go hiking, I may run into Sab somewhere on the flank of the mountain. I put a small pack together. Since I'm checking out of my cabin, I'll leave my larger backpack in storage. And off I go to headquarters to register for the climb.

A bit of a free-for-all without the arguments. Hikers are massed by the counter with only one employee processing them. A little to the side a cluster of men stands quietly. The guides, I'm told. When my turn comes, I pay the fees for the climbing permit and for the compulsory services of a guide. Both are cheap, so no point arguing, even though I would prefer to walk the path by myself. And I spot the Australian.

You don't have to hire a guide, mate. They're not employees of the Park. They're freelancers. The missus and I sneaked in unnoticed. Many people do.

And if you're caught? Wouldn't that warrant the death penalty?

He guffaws at my quip: Too right! A few people get lost in the fog. Others pinch pitcher plants. Now, the missus, bless her soul, had a saying about…

See? The guides act as stewards of their domain. You can't blame them, considering they have to contend with humanity's stupidity and thieving tendencies. Besides, I already paid the fees.

This morning, he seems to be limping. I wish him a pleasant day, then acquaint myself with my personal guide.

Barely five feet tall, the man is all muscle and sinew gained and maintained, I gather, from continuous treks up and down the mountain. He is wearing light pants, a crisp short-sleeved cotton shirt and sturdy sandals. No socks. He's forty-two years of age, he tells me, as if that were a badge of honour or his certification as a competent guide. Unless it is an amazing age for a guide in these parts, and it might be. Revealing that I am also forty-two amuses him and I'm suddenly aware of my mini pot-belly, to say nothing of my many complaints since I landed in his country. I take this opportunity to inform him that I am French. To avoid having to explain later that I am not German.

Paris? And he mimes playing an accordion.

No no. Canada. That geographical shift confuses him: And you?

Dusun tribe.

And what does that mean?

Mean?

I have learned that “kota” means city and “kinabalu” means spirits of the dead.

In Malay. In Dusun language, aki nabalu. Aki is ancestor or grandfather. Nabalu is revered place of dead.

I stand corrected. And so. What does Dusun mean?

Dusun means Dusun. My name is Ebin. Just Ebin.

Pleased to meet you, Ebin. I'm Gilles Lanctôt. No meaning that I know of.

Jillanto. Hello.

When he reaches for my small pack, I notice he is carrying no gear at all.